Darkblade Avenger, page 118
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
* * *
Naylor slipped out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Sorrow and a sleepless night had taken a toll on him. Yet between the bright light streaming through his window and the memories of his departed friends, he could rest no longer. Slipping on his boots, he strode toward the kitchen. His gaze fell on the pile of cloths heaped in one corner of the room.
He lifted a scrap of fabric to his nose and drew in a deep breath. It still smelled like Gracie; the floral perfume she'd insisted Etta spray on her every day since her fourth nameday. A half-completed ragdoll lay among the cloths. He smiled and stuffed one of the cloths into his cloak pocket. Grace had wanted to finish it herself. The little girl had toiled for weeks, her fingers struggling with the knots and waves of yarn.
The walls seemed to press in around him. The house, which had once rang with the childish laughter of his granddaughters, now felt deathly silent. The absence of his daughter and granddaughters sat like an immense weight upon his heart.
He reached for his cloak. He had to get out. A walk would clear his head and provide him a chance to scope out his next target. Perhaps he'd pay Master Bildar a visit tonight. He had no doubt the merchant's locks would prove difficult, but no one in the Bloody Hand had rivaled his skill. He could get through the door without much trouble.
Warm sunlight bathed his face as he stepped into the street. He closed his eyes and basked in the midday heat. The sounds of the busy Merchant's Quarter—pedestrians quibbling with merchants over purchases, rumbling carts and wagons, the clip clop of horses' hooves, and the distant ringing of the Lady's Bell—washed over him. The scents of spices, herbs, and fresh produce drifted from a nearby stall.
This was life in Voramis: bustling, hectic, clamorous. He had loved mingling with the thick crowds milling in and out of the marketplace. His nimble fingers and quick wits made him the perfect pickpocket as a youth. He glanced down at his aging hands. Those times were long past.
He strode away from the throng, turning into the quieter streets that led to the Beggar's Quarter. He strolled, aimless, allowing the hubbub around him to wipe away his fatigue and melancholy.
As he reached the main avenue that divided the Beggar's and Merchant's Quarters, he stopped. He frowned in confusion. He remembered leaving his home, Etta still asleep in their bed, but he couldn't recall why he had left.
He shrugged off the worry and continued on his journey to…wherever. The walk would clear his head of the cobwebs, remind him of his destination. If he didn't remember, no matter. He had nothing to do until he met up with Tadan and the other three members of his crew—he always had a hard time with their names—before sunset.
Deeper into the Beggar's Quarter he went, eventually crossing into the Temple District. With every step, his confusion mounted. Why had he come here?
He stopped, brow furrowing. He had no reason to enter the Temple District, or to be in the Beggar's Quarter. His belly rumbled; when was the last time he'd eaten? With the sun high in the sky, he ought to head home for a good meal. Sighing, he turned toward the Merchant's Quarter and his house.
Half an hour later, he pushed open his front door and called out. "Etta, I'm home." Silence met him.
He shrugged it off. No doubt Etta had taken Lora to the marketplace. Their daughter had grown into a precocious ten year old with a smile as bright as her mother's and as mischievous as her father's. She had his quick fingers, too; she'd come home with some bauble swiped from an unaware merchant's table.
Stomach growling, he lifted the lid of the pot on the stove. Etta had prepared his favorite: lamb and mushroom broth. He served a bowl and sat at the table to eat.
The sound of the door opening drew his attention. "Etta, is that--?"
A woman well into her fifth decade stood at the entrance to their home, a produce-filled bag in her hands. His wooden bowl clattered to the ground as he reached for his dagger. No sheath hung at his belt. Cursing, he reached for a knife from the counter. "Who are you?"
The woman's wispy grey eyebrows shot up. "Naylor?"
He'd never seen this old crone in his life, so how did she know his name?
"What are you doing in my house?"
"Naylor, what are you talking ab—?"
He took a step closer, waving the dagger threateningly. "Tell me what you want or I'll call the Heresiarchs!"
The woman's eyes went wide. "It's me. Etta."
"No!" Naylor shouted. This couldn't be Etta. His Etta had black hair, not grey, and her perfectly rounded face bore none of the wagon-rut lines that surrounded this woman's eyes and mouth.
A panicked thought crossed his mind. "Lora!" He scanned the street behind her. "What did you do with my daughter?" She was only ten years old; she couldn't be out alone. Where was Etta?
Pain twisted the old woman's face. "Naylor, what's going on?"
Naylor stared at her, confused. She spoke as if she knew him, entered his home as if she belonged. Something about her seemed familiar, yet…
Horrified, he dropped the knife. "E-Etta?" He slumped back into his chair. "I'm so…" He trailed off. He had no words.
"What's happening to you, Naylor?"
He met her gaze, found fear reflected there. "I…I don't know." How could be explain that he'd forgotten her, had forgotten the last twenty years of their life? "I can't…remember."
"What did they do to you?"
"They?"
Etta searched his eyes. "The Illusionist Clerics. The Rite of Erasure. Something's not right."
A faint memory flashed through Naylor's mind. He had a vague recollection of the ritual, the silver pendants, floating in the void. But what had they done to him?
"We have to stop it, Naylor. We have to get your memories back."
* * *
"Impossible." Loftus, the Illusionist Cleric, shook his head. "I told you this before completing the Rite, what is done cannot be undone."
"But you have to make it stop!" Naylor cried. "My memories…I'm losing them. Too many, all at once. And look." He held out his hands. The tremor and the stabbing pain had returned.
Loftus' eyes slid away from his. "I told you the chance of something going wrong was—"
Etta tugged at the priest's arm. "Please, sir. Please help him."
"I told you, I can't give his memories back." Loftus scratched his chin. "But maybe I can stop it from…"
Hope surged in Naylor's breast. "What do I need to do?"
The Illusionist Cleric glanced up at the sky. "It's too late now to carry out the ritual. Return at noon tomorrow and I will see what I can do. And bring payment for the Illusionist's services."
"Thank you!" Etta threw her arms around the priest.
Naylor wrung his hands. Tomorrow. He felt the holes in his mind, but he had no idea what once filled them. The ragged gaps of memory plagued him. He had glimpses of familiar faces: Tadan, his friend and fellow thief; Lora, Hudda, and Grace, his family; Etta, more beautiful in her golden years than ever.
But what else would he lose overnight? The Rite of Erasure had opened the floodgates; how many more fragments of his past would be forgotten before the priest dammed up his mind?
He needed to remember, at any cost. There was one place he could go to cling to the fragments of memory, to relive them.
* * *
Etta stiffened as they approached the marble archway leading to the Voramis Cemetery. "What are we doing here, Naylor?" She pulled her arm free of his.
"I-I need to see her, Etta." He reached for her. "I need to remember her."
Etta shook her head. "I can't." Her hands twitched at her clothing, her eyes darting away. "I can't," she repeated.
"Please." Naylor tilted up her chin. "I know it hurts, but I can't lose her too. Not like with…" He trailed off. He couldn't remember the names of his friends. He still had the occasional flash of a young man running the streets of Lower Voramis beside him, but the memories had begun to fade. "I need this."
Etta hesitated. He wouldn't relent. "For me, Etta."
He hadn't only come for himself. Etta had refused to visit the cemetery with him. Her eyes went blank at any mention of Grace, Hudda, and Lora. He'd stopped talking about them, had stopped asking her to come.
But that had to change. If he was to lose the memory of his granddaughter, he had to make sure someone remembered her.
Etta gave a hesitant nod. He kissed her forehead, locked his fingers in hers, and drew her into the cemetery. She moved with reluctance, her breath coming faster as they approached the grave where, together, months earlier, they'd laid their daughter and granddaughters to rest.
Etta's face hardened, but Naylor saw sorrow welling in her eyes. He squeezed her hand and knelt before the headstone. His fingers traced the letters engraved into the cold, unfeeling marble. Closing his eyes, he forced his mind to call up the memories of his Grace.
He chased a laughing, shouting child with bright blue eyes and dark curls. Lora huffed and adjusted the sling in which rested Hudda. Etta chided him for his antics; he winked at Grace and produced a shiny apple from his coat. With a squeal, she threw herself at his legs, reaching for the fruit he kept out of her reach.
A lump rose in his throat, but a smile touched his lips. He refused to remember her as he'd seen her last—pale, sweat-soaked, shivering despite the mountain of blankets. He had to hold to the pleasant memories, the happy times they'd shared. Four years with Grace hadn't been nearly enough, but it was all he had. He would remember them at any cost.
He clung to the memories, relived them to etch them into his mind. Even if he lost everything else, he had to remember his family.
The sound of sobbing drew him from his memories. Etta knelt beside him, her forehead pressed to the stone, tears streaming. Over and over, she whispered, "I'm sorry, little one. So sorry."
Naylor embraced his wife, and she clung to him. They held each other, neither able to find words but needing none.
After what seemed an eternity, Etta's tears dried. She wiped her eyes and gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, Naylor. I needed this. To see her…"
He pressed a kiss to her hand. "Come, let's get you home."
They stood and, arm in arm, strolled from the cemetery. Naylor spared a polite nod for the caretaker. The aging man seemed familiar, but he couldn't place him. Shrugging off the thought, Naylor led Etta away from the cemetery and the resting place of their beloved Grace.
* * *
Naylor stared down at the sleeping form in his bed. It took effort to remember her name. Etta. His wife.
Fear drove an icy spike into his gut. The holes in his memories had grown more ragged. Worse, the tremor and stabbing pain in his hands had returned. The Rite of Erasure was slowly removing more and more of him. He had to act now before everything slipped away.
The few lamps dotting the Merchant's Quarter failed to drive back the darkness. Better for him. He had to avoid the Heresiarchal patrols and the thugs roaming Lower Voramis. Often he found his attention wandering, his thoughts trickling like water through his hands.
He held one thought in the forefront of his mind: get the gold to pay the Illusionist Cleric. Again and again, he repeated it to himself, a bulwark to cling to in his desperation. Teeth gritted, fists clenched white against the tremble in his hands, he strode through the streets of the Beggar's Quarter and into the Temple District. The house of Master Bildar, a rich merchant noble who owned half the draft animals in Voramis, would provide the coin he needed.
He ducked into a side street to avoid a Heresiarch patrol. Heart pounding, he pressed himself into the shadows of a doorway, listening to the tromp tromp of their boots until it faded. With a quiet sigh, he slipped back into the street, continuing his journey toward…
Where? He stopped. Where was he headed? What was he doing out tonight? He ought to be home, curled up with Etta or reading little Lora a story.
No! He shook his head. Focus! Steal the gold and get to the Temple of Prosperity.
Frustration and anger set his stomach churning. He knew what was happening but could do nothing to stop it. Only the Illusionist Cleric could stop the decay of his mind. He had to hang on to every memory until the priest reversed the Rite.
* * *
Panic gripped Naylor's heart in a vise. He stood in the middle of an unfamiliar corridor, surrounded by furniture and paintings he'd never seen in his life. A velvet purse dangled from his fingers; its heft told him it held enough gold to live on for weeks.
But where was he? How had he gotten here? And where had the purse come from?
He scanned the room, desperate for answers. An open door behind him led into a darkened office. Someone had opened all the drawers of the enormous wooden desk, rifled through the cabinets, and scattered paper across the table.
Who had broken into his home? He shook his head, brow furrowing. No, that couldn't be right. His home was much smaller. So whose home was he in?
Light spilled into the room. A rotund man in velvet bedrobes strode around the corner, the lantern in his hand illuminating the hall. He stopped, mouth agape at the sight of Naylor.
Naylor opened his mouth; perhaps the man could explain.
"Thief!" The portly man's shout cut off his words.
Naylor froze. Thief? Where? The man's eyes snapped back to him and he realized the truth. He glanced at the purse dangling from his fingers. I'm the thief.
Instinct set his feet in motion. He darted down the corridor, away from the man's light and shouts. Without knowing why, he turned into a side room and leapt out the open window. His right hand closed around a drainpipe and he slid down to land hard on the muddy alleyway two floors below.
How in the hell had he known to do that? He searched his memories, found faint glimpses of himself sneaking through other homes. He was a thief.
The shouts from within the portly man's house grew louder, and lights brightened the windows. Naylor fled; he had to get away before the Heresiarchs arrived. The heavy purse jingled in his hand. Why had he taken the gold? And why in the Watcher's name were his hands on fire? The stabbing pain flared bright and hot. He nearly dropped the purse so violently his fingers twitched. He dared not cry out for fear of attracting attention. He ran, confusion setting his mind awhirl.
Where was he running to? Where could he go to find safety? He had no idea how to get home; no idea where home even was. He only knew he had to flee before the Heresiarchs caught him.
He rounded a corner and ran full into a man. They collapsed in a tangled heap of limbs. Naylor groaned and, with an apology to the bewildered laborer, raced away.
The streets flashed by as he ran. But why was he running? He slowed, his brow furrowing. The ache in his lungs and ribs forced him to pause and catch his breath. He racked his brain. Who was chasing him? And why?
He looked around. Everything seemed so foreign; he'd never been in this part of Voramis before, not in his memory. He strode toward the nearest building, a squat, sturdy construction with an enormous obelisk towering high. Beside it stood a small onyx altar, and beyond a dull brown building. A part of him knew they were temples, but try as he might, he couldn't remember the names of the gods.
He sat on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the enormous plaza. Why couldn't he remember? What was happening to him?
He stood, hesitated, then sat again. He had no idea why he had come here or where here even was. He could only sit and stare around him, hopeless, lost. Thoughts flowed through his mind, ever out of his reach. When he tried to cling to one, another trickled away. He drifted in the currents of memories that refused to coalesce before his eyes.
Fire raced through his fingers. He plunged his hands into the water to cool them, to no avail.
"Please!" he cried—to whom, he didn't know. Someone, anyone. "Please, help me."
Only the sound of the bubbling fountain echoed in the enormous plaza. He was alone.
He slid to the hard cobblestones, tears streaming down his face. He sat there, lost, confused, and helpless. He couldn't even remember his name. In desperation, he fumbled in his pockets to find anything to bring back memories, to give him an idea of who he was.
A purse hung in one pocket; his eyes widened as golden coins spilled onto his palm. His other pocket contained a few useless-looking slivers of metal, a pair of silver coins, and a strip of red cloth.
He ran his fingers over the fabric. Why would he have this? Hesitant, he sniffed it. The scent—roses with a hint of citrus—seemed somehow…familiar.
Something snapped in his mind. Images washed over him.
He sat before a simple headstone, his fingers tracing words he could not read etched into the stone. A child lay in bed, pale, shivering, covered in a pile of blankets. A curly-haired girl laughed and reached for him. "Gramps," she cried.
Grace. The child's smile, her round face with the little button nose, the mischief in her dark eyes. He knew them. They belonged to Grace, his granddaughter.
"Grace." He repeated the name over and over. He had to remember it, no matter what.
The Illusionist Cleric! Naylor sat upright. His eyes sought out the Temple of Prosperity with the mind-boggling patterns painted onto its façade. A priest there had done something to his mind, his memories. Could he fix it? Could the Illusionist Cleric reverse whatever had happened?
He fumbled for the purse. He had money—a lot of it. He could afford to pay. Surely the God of Madness would take pity on him.
Stumbling to his feet, he staggered across the empty, darkened plaza toward the Illusionist's temple. The priests could heal him, perhaps even restore what he'd lost.
Up the stairs he went, his feet filled with lead and pain surging through his fingers.
He pounded on the temple door until his hands ached but no one answered. Tears streaming, he sagged against the wall.
